DECEMBER 22, 2023, was supposed to be a night of joy for 38-year-old Macdonald Mabika from Warren Park D, Harare.
His wife, heavily pregnant, had been admitted to Parirenyatwa Hospital the day before. The couple was eagerly awaiting the arrival of their fourth child, a son who would join their three daughters, aged 11, five, and two.
That evening, Mabika’s excitement was palpable.
“Even if she gives birth at 1am, I will drive there,” he told me with a smile. “The doctors are considering inducing labour due to unforeseen complications.”
As we spoke, he kept trying to reach his wife by phone, but there was no response. Assuming she was in the delivery room, we bid each other goodbye.
Minutes later, his phone rang.
The call was from an official at Parirenyatwa Hospital, a call that would change everything.
“We lost your son due to foetal distress,” the official said, followed by a heavy silence.
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In a trembling voice, Mabika asked, “How is my wife?”
The response was chilling: “If you are nearby, come to the hospital, but don’t tell her about the baby yet — she doesn’t know.”
Upon arriving at the hospital, we were led to a small room where the lifeless body of Mabika’s son lay wrapped in green cloth.
Seven other tiny bodies lay beside him, silent victims of the same fate.
A nurse informed us that Mabika’s wife had lost a significant amount of blood and was rushed into surgery. Two agonising hours later, eight medical practitioners broke the devastating news: she could not be saved.
What followed was a scene of unimaginable grief. Mabika’s wails filled the room as he repeatedly questioned the heavens, “What have I done to deserve this?”
Eight months have passed since that night, but Mabika’s grief remains raw.
“The images of that day haunt me. The silence in the house is overwhelming, and the emptiness consumes me. I pretend to be fine, but inside, I’m hurting. I avoid people because I can’t explain what I don’t understand myself,” he confided.
Mabika’s story is not unique. Across Zimbabwe, many men endure the sudden loss of their wives during childbirth, a trauma that triggers immense mental health challenges. Yet, these stories are often overlooked in discussions about maternal mortality.
Zimbabwe’s maternal mortality rate remains alarmingly high. According to the 2022 National Housing and Population Census, maternal deaths stand at 362 per 100 000 live births.
While there has been a decline, the rate still falls short of the government’s target of 314. In 2023, the institutional maternal mortality rate rose to 114 per 100 000 live births, up from 107 in 2022, as reported by the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA), again missing the Ministry of Health’s target of 73 per 100 000.
While the focus rightly remains on the women who lose their lives, the emotional and psychological toll on their surviving spouses is often ignored.
“These men are left to grapple with grief while managing parenthood and facing mental health challenges that go largely unaddressed,” said Alois Nyamazana, founder of Fathers Against Abuse and Gender and Justice Advocate.
“They feel helpless, burdened with mourning their spouse while caring for children. Many struggle with guilt, wondering if they could have done something differently, all while being pressured to ‘stay strong’, forcing them to suppress their emotions.”
The societal expectation for men to remain stoic in the face of trauma exacerbates their suffering.
Psychologist Ivy Mukombachoto noted that communities, instead of offering support, often reinforce this pressure.
“When men try to express their grief, they are told to ‘be strong for the family’ and that ‘men don’t cry’, reinforcing the belief that showing emotion is unacceptable,” Mukombachoto explained.
“As a result, men hide their pain from others and begin to internalise the idea that their grief is something to be ashamed of.”
For some, the burden of grief leads to depression, as they struggle to cope with the loss.
Kenias Chigubu from Dzivaresekwa Extension in Harare lost both his wife and baby girl during childbirth in 2022.
“We had only been together for eight months,” Chigubu said.
“When she eloped, I planned to pay lobola after a few months, but she urged me to send a small amount to her family just to let them know she was with me. She wanted us to save what little we had for the baby. Sadly, she didn’t survive.”
Chigubu’s in-laws demanded US$3 000 to bury their daughter. Despite help from his relatives, he could only raise US$2 500, plunging him into debt.
“After the funeral, I had nothing — my wife and son were gone, I had sold almost everything, and I was in debt. The pain was indescribable. I fell into depression,” he recalled.
United Kingdom-based Trauma Healing facilitator and birth educator, Joyce Dube, explained that depression can quietly creep in, initially masked by shock or the need to remain strong for others.
“The emotional devastation of loss is quickly overshadowed by the financial burden and heartlessness they face, leaving them feeling exploited, isolated, and overwhelmed. This toxic combination can push them further into despair, making recovery even harder,” said Dube.
These mental health struggles can even push some to contemplate suicide. Research shows that suicide rates are higher among bereaved individuals, particularly in the early stages of grief, than among non-bereaved persons.
Admire Mutando from Yellow City in Marondera survived two suicide attempts and has now turned to alcoholism. He blames himself for his wife’s maternal death in March last year.
The couple had two daughters, and Mutando believes his wife felt pressured to give him a son.
“I always told her not to worry about it, that I was happy with our girls,” he said.
“But she didn’t believe me. Now, I feel like I didn’t convince her enough. If I had, she would still be here.”
To make matters worse, his wife’s relatives took their daughters away. The eldest, aged 10, now lives with her aunt in Rusape, while the younger daughter, seven, is with her grandmother in Nyazura.
“I am a dead man walking. If I drink, I’ll die; if I don’t, stress will kill me. Either way, I’m doomed,” Mutando said.
Mabika, who works as a glazier, posts daily messages of pain on his WhatsApp status, a testament to the lingering freshness of his grief. Dube believes that narrative therapy could help men like Mabika by assisting them in constructing a narrative about their loss.
“This therapy helps them make sense of their experiences and integrate them meaningfully into their lives,” she said.
Social analyst Eddie Mangwende emphasised the need for culturally sensitive counselling and therapy to be readily available for grieving men, addressing the stigma they face when seeking help.
Community and religious leaders must also foster an environment where men can express their grief without judgment.
For Mabika and others, one can only hope that time heals their pain and that they find the mental strength to continue providing for their children.
